


The Letter

by Senora_Luna



Series: 30 Day OTP Smut One Shots [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, Imelda misses her husband, Masturbation, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senora_Luna/pseuds/Senora_Luna
Summary: Hector's been on the road for awhile and his last letter left Imelda filled with feelings she doesn't know how to handle.





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Masturbation Day for an Imector 30 Day Smutty Challenge-more to come! :)
> 
> Hey if my work makes me smile check out my tumblr and consider supporting/commissioning me? http://senoraluna.tumblr.com/

Slowly, Imelda’s hand looped the last of cursive in a dreamy, contemplative spell. ‘ _Your Imelda’_ , and as she dropped the pen the haze of her writing evaporated to cool judgmental logic. Ay Dios, she picked up the local newspaper slamming it over her letter as if embarrassed to read it again-what if her brothers saw it-or Socorro? Or worse her Mamá! ‘It’s the middle of your night in _your_ room…no one is coming’, reassured the less ashamed part of her that simply missed her husband with an aching passion.

With a deep breath of reassurance, she lifted the newspaper tenderly, making sure she did not smear the letter she had just written her husband. Thankfully it remained unscathed, her words of desire that had nearly burst forth. They had propelled her from bed after nearly two hours of rolling around side to side finding no amount of relaxation or rest in her body.

            The words spilled out of her like an overflowing bath, how she missed him, how she wanted him close, she wasn’t even annoyed he was away tonight, she could only think of him and feel the acute absence of his weight in the bed beside her. Writing had helped, she at least felt validated she had addressed her feelings rather than shove them downward as usual-yet…

            Returning to the bed was a miserable proposition. Delving into the mind space which housed her husband’s sexual affection had only intensified how achingly absent he was. Normally he would be there on his side of the bed, body sprawled out, such an open and relaxed sleeper, whereas her restlessness could propel her up at anytime of the night like this. And inevitably he would hear her rustling, or she would return to him, nuzzling into his side until his arms came about tracing her nape or spine, whatever little gesture he could find to lull her to sleep. It wasn’t even just the gestures, but his presence in general. The warmth of his body, the soft, tickling hair on his skin, or just his scent.

            The hint of avocado which was in his aftershave, the gel he’d style in his goatee sometimes, or always (and her favorite) his body-the sweat, the cling of his clothing, guitar polish, wood, ink stains from writing hidden on his body and fresh parchment. Somehow over the years those smells had twisted in her mind to something automatic, awakening, calming, arousing, all at the same time. Ay Dios, she sank back in the wooden chair fluttering her eyes shut. She could nearly smell it all, especially when he sweat above her, his hot pants falling across her face when he was in her-Imelda pull yourself together!

            Inhaling sharply she blew out the candle she’d lit for writing and trudged toward the bed sitting on the side with a melancholic sigh. Then uncharacteristically she flopped back, landing in the middle of the divide, much too lonely and restless to return to her own side. If he were here he’d have her in his arms, share his pillow space with her-his pillow.

            Lifting her head she crawled up the bed until touching the neatly made side which she’d left undisturbed since his departure. Slowly, she reclined into his pillow face first, hoping the scent would smother her and her restless mind. Ah, there he was. Gel, ink, that familiar sweat… _Héctor_.

            “Hola mi amor…” Imelda mumbled, what a night. It was as if his absence was turning her into the romantic poet, gushing out lyrical non-sensical things, and dripping with praising pet names as was his usual persona. Ignoring any judgement in her mind she brought her arms around the pillow curling it under her body, while her head remained on top. Closing her eyes she could imagine him, his thudding heartbeat, the bones pressing her if she laid at the wrong angle, and lithe dancer muscles at the right.

            ‘ _Can’t sleep…ay mi nina…_ ’ The little name he only used when feeling especially protective in his role as esposo. That’s what they were, his girls, when he was trying to be protective or caretake. And his hand would smooth into her hair stroking down her scalp across the long braid. Keeping her close until she was asleep in his arms, freed from her restless, busy, mind.

            As soon as he was home she could have that. No more restless nights of wandering, aimless reading, or ineffective garden walks. Lord knows she would not let that man go once he was in her grasp again. Ernesto could whine and suffer. She had the wedding band not him. Her esposo, her hombre, her Héctor. If only he were here she could get lost in his skin, absorb that sweat into her own pores, and kiss him until he was too hoarse to sing for anyone but her.

            The thoughts brought a dull ache between her legs just as they had while writing. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed, the cold night was starting to feel warm instead. Writhing in discomfort she relented and sat up in a frustrated huff yanking off her nightgown and tossing it to the side of the bed. Nudity didn’t bring much relief, and she sank down into his pillow again clutching it to her bare breasts.

            They ached, all of her was aching. She could imagine his mouth on her nipples, his smirks, his teasing, his affectionate glances. Curling against his pillow she gave a little whine, using the friction of the cotton to stimulate each nipple-but it wasn’t enough no it wasn’t where she really longed for the stimulation.

            The shame and dutiful obligations were free floating now, she was free to be with her senses as she did on stage, and they all hummed for a singular action. Shifting and curling while still hugging his pillow she let it slide down between her thighs and gave a tiny little press into the fabric. Now that was what she was waiting for.

            Delicious soft resistance pressing between the lips of her sex as she reached down, letting a bundle of covered feathers be the tiny bulge she rode on. It was much like their courtship-desperate to touch each other, desperate for closeness, but forbidden by Catholic guilt to indulge all the way to intercourse. Instead they improvised, she on his lap, he holding her hips, grinding, grinding, grinding, into one another’s covered sex. Both in their underwear, maintaining chastity by the thin layers of cotton, while still finding release by one another’s body and moans.

            “Héctor…” Came a soft moan out of her as she turned her face into the sheets. It was easy to recall, his nervous smile-his shy inexperienced hands, unable to decide between touching her, or leaving her be. “Tócame…”

            Now of course he was much more bold. If they were grinding like this it was a game-who could hold out the longest, who could stand to be stimulated this close before begging the other to join their bodies. Never before had she understood the painful aching of emptiness until she’d known what it was like to be deliciously filled by him.

            “I want you inside me…” She whimpered into the mattress, her voice creaking the same way it did while her hips rolled all her weight into his pillow. Unable to withstand and further wait she reached a hand beneath her stomach where she lay, and replaced the now soaked pillow with her fingers. Maybe tomorrow she’d be embarrassed how wet she was from simply rolling on his pillow. Not tonight. Tonight it was a blessing she could slid her index finger inside with ease and try her damnedest to recall the pressure of his cock.

            As soon as it pushed inside she whimpered, this is what she’d been waiting for-as she could picture his reunion now. It wasn’t her finger it was him. He was going to be protective if she was so lonely, and smother her with his entire long body so not a single part of her would be lonely as his weight pressed her stomach into the mattress. Considerately he’d prop her hips on his pillow, pushing it under her, then push _himself_ into her dripping spread legs, making sure his _nina_ didn’t know any sense of the word emptiness. And her finger was just not enough.

            No his cock with longer, thicker, than her pitiful slight finger. It was impossible to fill herself to the warm center of her stomach in his absence and it nearly made her weep with frustration and loneliness into the mattress for a moment. Soothingly, she rubbed her sex with her palm imagining him, his voice-his humor, how he’d be home soon and chuckle in her ear when he was on top of her as she described this moment.

            _‘Mi amor…mi amor…probrecita…estoy aqui’_ That deep voice in her ear, the smells on her neck, he could force a smile and relaxation out of her like no one in the world. She didn’t have to be the head of the house, responsible older sister, caring daughter, perfect Mamá with him, she was just Imelda. Just Imelda with her own needs, her own shortcomings, and own limits. And he took them all and found solutions-or at least a way to make her laugh about it.

Slowly, as if he were coaching her, she pressed another finger within, stretching herself with a moaning relief at least that could mimic the feel of his width. And that tiny realization sent them to a frenzy pushing in and out as her hips rocked against the pillow-imagining him behind her filling her wanting body. Hell, he didn’t even have to be in her-he could watch. A brazen piece of her imagined him arriving home, seeing her spread out like this as he opened their door, and he would see completely just how simply the thought of him made her so wet _,_ so desperate, and he too could be fulfilled by that pleasure he was left with enough fantasies to handle his own loneliness.

            Soon, _soon_ he would be home. He’d be on top going faster, and faster, deeper and deeper. Then he’d know just how painful it was to leave her-he’d never be able to be gone this long again she would milk his body until she was his addiction.

            A curious finger contemplated rubbing against her clit to increase the pleasure and she stopped it, imagining slapping his hand away once he was home. No, she would say, tonight she wanted to focus on how he felt in her. That sensation alone, even if she found a release or not. She wanted it sealed in her memories just what every millimeter did to her insides, just what every little shudder of her hips created from his voice, just how deep and fast his strokes could go before it became painful-or if that was even possible anymore.

            “Héctor!” A louder moan and she quickly brought her free hand to her mouth biting down her knuckle. ‘ _Don’t wake the house…’_ he’d tease, even when he knew exactly what his body did to her was enough to make her scream. But her entire body was shaking now, shaking into her fingers, and the pillow-her nose inhaling deeply to the sheets that had absorbed his sweat and she wished they’d never been washed.

            Come home, come to me, come in me, come in me, come in me…her thoughts raced, unconscious desires floating around, until she gasped-then whimpered loudly-biting down on her finger to hold in a scream as orgasm rippled through her legs in bucking convulsions. The memories of his own were in her mind, the groans, the curses, the slurred amalgamations of her name. The delicious heat of his body leaving her warm inside, leaving her with a piece of him even when he left.

            Slowly, she let her finger go, ignoring the red marks her teeth had left. Regaining her breath she drew sticky fingers from herself and wiped them against his pillow. It didn’t matter much now when she’d already left a large wet spot on it-and part of her thrilled at the idea of him coming home and discovering it.

            A yawn escaped her, she took hold of her own pillow, keeping his between her legs, and laid her head down with a contented sigh. Soon, soon, he would get her letter. And then surely he would be home. That was the most relaxing thought she’d had all evening as finally peaceful sleep was possible.

 


End file.
